Picking Up The Pieces
by guineapiggie
Summary: John tries to find back to life, Mycroft hosts his broken brother, Lestrade, drowning himself in his work, finds a mysterious CCTV tape and Molly Hooper. Collection of loosely-linked one-shots. (Post-Reichenbach; No Johnlock; slight Lestrade/Molly; Requests welcome!) Rated T for dark themes and language.
1. Brothers (Mycroft)

**Brothers **

_***Author's note* Please review and let me know what you think of it! Oh, and please tell me if you find any grammar mistakes.**_

* * *

He was in a meeting, surrounded by the highest men in the country, when his phone gave three short beeps. He stiffened. There was only one person who sent him text.

Muttering an excuse, he reached for his jacket and pulled out the phone. **Still worrying about me? -SH **He let out a sigh of relief. Not for one second had he believed that

Sherlock was dead, but he didn't think that his brother would be able to make it on his own. **Always, Sherlock -MH**

The response came immediately**. Why would you? -SH**

Mycroft closed his eyes for a second. Why did he want to protect him? What a question.

_Heavy rain splashed on his umbrella as he walked up to the big old house. The gravel was crunching under his feet just like it always had. He had almost reached the door when he noticed the dark silhouettes of two people in the living room. And something didn't seem right at all. He ran up to the front door, fumbled with the key for a second and then hurried across the hall. Panting slightly, he ripped open the door and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his father's raised fist and the panic in Sherlock's eyes._

_His little brother ducked the first punch and there was so much routine in his movements that it could impossibly be the first time their father had a go at him. Mycroft froze._

_For how long had he been missing the signs? He should have never moved out._

_The next punch hit Sherlock in the chest, the third one caught his jaw. "Mycroft," he heard his little brother wail. Another punch. Sherlock staggered backwards and right into the wall. He was cornered, no way to escape. "Mycroft!" He couldn't move. He couldn't believe that he- he of all people - should have made such a basic mistake. Their father launched himself at his son again. His fist made contact with Sherlock's nose and it started to bleed._

_"Do something," he yelled and stared desperately at Mycroft. But he could just stand there and watch his little brother's blood drip on the carpet._ Move, idiot, _he thought. _For god's sake, move, you have to help. _He felt his breath go much too fast, but for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes had entirely lost control. "Stop it," he whispered, but nobody heard him. "Stop."_

_The next moment, the door burst open and one of the staff members dragged their father away from the sunken little creature in the corner._

_Mycroft stumbled over to him and pulled him to his feet, but Sherlock pushed him away and gave him a look that made him feel like he had been punched, too. His little brother rushed out and left behind a silence that ringed in Mycroft's ears. _

_He stepped over to his father very slowly, allowing his anger to take over him. Not entirely, just enough to make him do what he had to._

_"Sir, it's no use, he's drunk," said the butler who had gone slightly pale at the sight of the elder Holmes and the look on his face._

_"Not drunk enough to forget what I'm about to tell him. And not nearly drunk enough to be forgiven." He waved an impatient hand at the butler and said, in a voice that was used to giving orders: "Leave."_

_The man seemed almost grateful._

_"This wasn't the first time. For how long has this been going on?" Mycroft demanded quietly. His father didn't answer. He took a few steps closer. "For how long?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"I'll make this easy for you, _father. _If you touch my brother ever again, I will have you killed. You are well aware of the fact that I could easily arrange that. I'd do it myself if the situation required it."_

_"You couldn't pull the trigger," his father said and laughed._

_"You'd be surprised," he responded calmly, pleased to see fear flicker in the older man's eyes. "I should have never left. But believe me, if you ever even think of laying hand on Sherlock again, I will know about it. And I will see to the consequences. Goodnight." He strode out of the room and went upstairs, where he slumped next to his brother's door. He didn't knock, Sherlock didn't want to talk to him. Who knew if he would ever want to again._

_So he just sat there and guarded that door._

_He would not allow himself to fail like that anymore._

**Because I'm your brother. -MH** _Countenance, _he told himself firmly and pushed the memory from his mind. _Divorce yourself from feelings, _that was what he had always preached his brother in order to protect him. Of course, that showed just how much difficulty he himself was having with that rule…

**I need your help. -SH **Despite everything that his brother went through at this moment, Mycroft caught himself smiling at the fact that he was coming to him for help.

**What do you need? -MH**


	2. Liar, Liar (John)

**Liar, Liar**

_***Author's note* please review and tell me if you like it! Sorry it's so short.**_

"I'm sorry, John."  
I can see Anderson passing by outside.  
"John, are you listening?"  
No, I'm not, really. I've lost the ability to do more than three things at once. Right now I'm breathing, standing and hating the world. There's no space for listening to Lestrade.  
"John." When did he start to add my name to literally all of his sentences?  
"For god's sake John, I'm talking to you!"  
I sit down so I can start listening. For obvious reasons, I can't stop breathing. Or hating the world.  
Not that I hadn't tried, to stop breathing, I mean. But I can't just kill myself. Because I can't stop thinking how it'd look for everybody like I had been in love with Sherlock Holmes, which I hadn't. Not in _that _way. And because it feels like breaking a promise I've made to him, even though it has never really been made.  
Sherlock had a plan, and me dying wouldn't fit into it. I won't interfere with his plans.  
"Yes, Greg, sorry. What did you say?"  
"Are you sure you're all right? You look…" He doesn't say it, but I know what he means. Mrs. Hudson put it very accurately, I think, by saying I looked like I always did and I behaved like I always did and yet one gets the impression I wasn't there, not really.  
"I'm just fine." That is quite true. I've learned to live with the slight numbness in my head; it's a lot more comfortable than what it all felt like before. I've learned to be at places while I'm actually gone.  
"We need his laptop, John. I'm sorry. But you know, all these crimes they accused him of now… I need to look for evidence or this is going to be my last case. I don't want his… his suicide to be my last case, John, I really don't."  
I'm not defending him anymore, I don't say he never committed any crimes but solved them. I would just be wasting my breath.  
"Okay. I'll bring it to you tomorrow, Greg, if that's soon enough for you."  
"Can't your give it to me today? I need it."  
"I've got a date tonight." Those have become my magic words. Once I've said them, everybody leaves me alone. _Hooray, John's starting to have a life again!  
_"Oh. You know, coming to think of it, tomorrow is fine." Lestrade smiles weakly. Suddenly it strikes me that I feel sorry for him. I know that somehow, he's grieving himself. He shouldn't feel responsible for my grief, too.  
So I smile back and lie a bit more.  
Have I always been a liar?


	3. Session with Ella (John)

**Session with Ella**

**_*Author's note* I know my chapters are pretty short, but I couldn't think of a more sensible way to split it. I really hope there are no grammar mistakes, I went through it a million times, but I'm not a native speaker. So please, tell me if you find anything! Please rate or review!_**

"That blog was supposed to help you, John. Why are you only writing in it when you don't need help?"

Because I can't stand to realize that after all this action nothing happens to me. Again. Because I can't stand to write only about me when all other entries deal with someone else.  
Because I can't stand to read his name all the time, knowing it was me who put it there, unaware of what it'd do to me later on.

"What am I supposed to write?"  
"You're supposed to write about how you feel."  
"I don't feel anything."  
Ella smiles. "That's not possible. One always feels something."  
"Well, I don't! I just feel numb!" Now I'm shouting. Isn't that woman supposed to help me with my limp and stuff? All she does is drive me up the wall.  
"You need to get out of that… that mind-prison of yours." she says, apparently trying to calm me down.

It's totally backfiring. "_I need to go to my mind palace."_ I remember another voice say.  
That's it. He had a palace, now I have a prison. I jump to my feet and leave, ignoring Ella who's shouting after me.


	4. Of Paperwork and Shattered Glass (Greg)

**Of Paperwork and Shattered Glass**

_***Author's note* Well, this turned out a lot longer than I expected! Please review and tell me how you like it. I promise I'll be nicer to Lestrade in the next few chapters.**_

He clutched his coffee and took a few deep breaths. He was tired, his job had never been so exhausting and, at the same time, it had never been so boring. His team was not a lot of help, either. They had stopped making stupid jokes about Sherlock when he was around, but he still caught enough of it to be cross with them. He sipped at his coffee and burned his tongue. Well, Donovan would be more careful from now on. Lestrade buried his head in his hands. He was going to be topic number one at the chief superintendent's office after what he had done this morning. Maybe they would even fire him this time.

He was certainly not proud of the things he had called his sergeant, leave alone the fact he had thrown a heavy vase out of the window. The closed window.  
For God's sake, yes, he had lost his temper, but she had wound him up with all her stupid innuendos and she just hadn't stopped, even though his shaking hands and the look on his face had been pretty unmistakable. It wasn't his fault if she didn't know when to shut up. He had warned her, hadn't he, he had told them time and time again that it was enough, that he wouldn't stand for it anymore, their low jokes and the smug smiles every time they heard his name. He had tolerated the way they had treated Sherlock, bullied him, even, gossiped about him. But, for heaven's sake, now he was dead and they still gloated about his failure!

A loud bang jerked him out of his thoughts. Someone stormed into his office and smashed a letter on his desk.  
"That's really ridiculous!"  
"Did you have to spoil my lunch break?" he asked quietly without raising his head.  
"I don't care about your ruddy break," she hissed and weaved the letter in front of his eyes. "What the hell do you think that is?"  
"Well, Jenny dear, I _think_ those are the divorce papers I had my lawyer send to you."  
Her eyes filled with fake tears. "And since when have we given up on each other?"  
"I don't know when you gave up on us, probably when you started fucking that guy from your office. I must have given you up somewhere between the moment I was told that you had chosen yet another man over me and the moment I threw my wedding ring into the Thames."  
"You did _what_?"

Her voice was so shrill, how could it be he never noticed that? He looked at the woman he had married ten years ago. She was still pretty, but she had definitely aged (not as much as he had in the past two months, though). Her blonde hair looked slightly unhealthy because she dyed it so often to hide the grey roots. Her skin didn't look as fresh as it used to, despite the expensive make up she spent half his money on. But she still had those bright blue eyes he had always admired. He had loved her once.  
With a bitter sensation of finality he realized that this was no longer the case.

"How could you do that? What happened to the man I married? Your colleague just told me you attacked her this morning-"  
"I didn't _attack_ her, I smashed the window-"  
"Bad enough! First you send me this stuff and now you're getting violent! That's the final straw, Greg!"  
"You tell me about the final straw , Jenny! I had hoped that after you cheated on me for over a year - with two different men, mind you - and my friend flung himself off a rooftop… I thought you would at least be so kind and sign those bloody papers." Without meaning to, he had stood up and started shouting. The whole office must have been able to hear him, but he didn't care. For the second time that day the anger and the disappointment bottled up inside him broke loose. "I've got enough problems without you being all complicated! I've had enough, Jenny, I want it to end! I'm sick of waging war against you, and for God's sake, we both know we should have done this months ago, so why do you have to do all this?" He collapsed into his chair and continued in a lifeless, tired voice: "It's over, Jenny. Once and for all. If you still care about me at least a bit, sign it. You'd make my life an easier one." She threw him a long look, then grabbed a pen from his desk and put her signature next to his.  
He could see he'd hurt her a lot more than he had intended. "I'm sorry, Jen," he whispered and tried a smile, but it didn't turn out very convincing.  
"You need help, Greg," she said quietly. "Call me if you want to talk." He opened his mouth to thank her, but she cut him off. "I know you won't. See you around." She left and closed the door very carefully, as if he was sleeping and she didn't want to wake him.

Maybe she was right. He'd never admit it, but maybe he could do with some help.  
He sipped at his coffee. It was cold.


	5. Password (John)

**Password**

_***Author's note* So here's the new chapter. Yes, sorry, it's just as short as the others... I'll try to make them longer. Please review!**_

I had known there was nothing of importance on the laptop even before I started looking for it. Sherlock didn't need to note anything down. There's nothing but his e-mails, and I can't erase those because that'd look suspicious. Same on his phone.

When I had come back from the hospital _that _day, there'd been a note sticking to his laptop, bearing the password. Lestrade won't be able to make very much of that note, though. I've kept it in my hand for ages, the ink is rubbed off and faded, the writing barely readable.

But it doesn't feel right to make it that easy for Scotland Yard. I log in again, open the menu to change the password. Then I stare blankly at the empty white box.

_Enter new password_

What sort of password would he have used? His old one had been a number that looked pretty random to me, but I'm not sure whether or not it has had a meaning to him.

"Don't be obvious, John. Didn't you learn anything from the woman?" That voice is not really there, yet it is the only thing that can tear me out of my numbness. I close my eyes and wait for the pain to be over. But it won't go away, deep down I know that. It's just being covered by my numbness.  
"But you're like her. You couldn't live with a random thing. There's no such thing as coincidence, you said." I whisper. Right now it feels like he's there. I have those moments, but Ella doesn't know about them, nobody does. I'm afraid they'd put me in the closed ward if they knew.  
I can hear him laugh. "You knew me well, how is it you couldn't see it coming?" he asks and then he's gone.

I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know why you did it; all I know is that Moriarty was there. He was real. If I'd find him, I knew what happened.  
Moriarty's the key to it all.  
"Moriarty's the key." I whisper and smile, just for a second. There's my password.

_Enter new password_


	6. Small Steps (John)

**Small Steps**

***Author's note* As always, I hope you like it! Reviews are great.**

Ella told me to let go, to say goodbye. But I can't. Because I know he lied to me when he said it'd all been a lie and I know that's the only lie that he ever told me. I mean, of course there where others, little lies, that sort of thing we all do (I'm not implying everyone locks their best friends in labs for a little experiment, though). But that was the only big lie.

"It was all a trick, a magic trick." I hate magic tricks, he knew that. He was trying to give me a hint; I'm only too stupid to get it. God, how I wish he'd be there to tell me I was an idiot. That I was an average mind, that I had a "funny little brain"… Well, you get my drift.

People keep saying that Sherlock and I had been in love. That's not true.

I wasn't, you know, physically attracted to him.

I was attracted to him because he was so strange and different and brilliant and fascinating and because living with him gave me the adrenaline I needed.

We weren't lovers, but we weren't just friends, either. I don't know what he saw in me, I don't even know what _I _saw in _him. _I did love him, in any way but _that. _I loved him as this sort of brother - bully - teacher - reckless-half-of-me - genius - idol - hero - friend - thing that he was to me. That he _is _to me.

I can't really define what we had but I do know that I miss it.

I get out my laptop and type a very short entry. I don't know why I do it, to make Ella happy, maybe. To let people know I'm still there. To let _me _know I'm still there.

**Untitled**

I miss Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Dinner at Baker Street (John)

**Dinner at Baker Street**

**_*Author's note* I thought it was time to have a look at John again, but I gotta say I'm not as happy with this one as with the others. So please review and tell me if you think otherwise ;) I don't know when the next chapter will be up, I'm running out of ideas, so it might take a while. (oh, and forgive my overuse of the word "somewhat", please)_**

I'm late for dinner, on purpose. I couldn't stand the idea of having to wait on the familiar pavement outside 221 or by the worn staircase. I know it's sentimental, I know it's been over two months and I'm behaving like a child, but I can't help it. Surprisingly, it's not Mrs. Hudson who opens the door.  
"Molly! I didn't know you were invited, too." I immediately feel guilty for making them wait. "Sorry I'm late."  
"Oh, don't worry, you're not the last one...we're still waiting for someone…" she mumbles, not looking at me. I follow her into 221a where Mrs. Hudson rustles over to greet me over-enthusiastically. Her small dining table is bending under the weight of three heavy pots and countless steaming bowls. "Good Lord, Mrs. Hudson, that looks great, but who's supposed to eat all that?"  
"Why, yes, it's a bit much, right?" She laughs and straightens the dishes somewhat nervously.  
"Who are we waiting for?"  
"The Detective Inspector. I met him at the supermarket last Wednesday, he looked like he could do with some company, so I invited him over."  
I nod and take the seat I've sat on so often the last two months. I still like it here at the old lady's flat, despite 221b hovering above like an angry animal, holding an astonishing amount of painful memories. Or host tries to make conversation, but it doesn't go too well. Molly replies politely to all her questions, but as she never really gets out of the morgue, she doesn't have a lot to add to the conversation. I know I should be talking more, but I don't feel like I have anything to say. Luckily, Lestrade turns up ten minutes later.

I've seen him look worn and tired, but this is a new extreme.  
"You should have stated without me, it'll be all cold," he sais and sits down next to me. "Sorry, the guys from the moving company took longer than expected."  
"You're moving out?" I ask, mildly surprised. I was starting to think he'd never take that step. "Need some help?"  
"Could do with some, actually, yeah." He looks at his plate somewhat disorientated and starts prodding his potatoes with his fork. I force myself to eat before I start doing the same thing.  
"So you and the-" Mrs. Hudson stops herself from saying_ the beast_, as she usually calls Lestrade's wife in his absence, just in time, "you and Jennifer have split up?"  
"I've insisted on a divorce," he answers in a hollow voice and helps himself to some meat. We all start wolfing down our food because we don't know what to say.

We do get a conversation started after a while. We talk about the lack of officers at Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson's hip problem, my new work at the hospital and Molly's cat. Topics nobody dares to bring up for hours: that pavement in front of St. Bart's and the day it was full of blood, Jenny Lestrade, the reason Greg smashed a window at the Yard, the reason I asked for a job everywhere except at Bart's and pretty much everything else related to a certain private detective who used to live upstairs.  
Lestrade and Molly sit at the far end of the room. I can't hear what they're saying, but Molly seems even more uncomfortable ever since he arrived, almost as if his presence was making her nervous. Lestrade, on the other hand, seems to enjoy her company, a lot more than mine, anyway (I can't blame him). She sais something and a smile creeps across his face. It dies away swiftly, but it was definitely there and it's the first time I've seen him genuinely smiling in a while.  
"Poor lad, the whole thing gave him so much trouble," Mrs. Hudson sighs. I nod, there's no need to say it did that to all of us.

It is quite late when Lestrade suddenly gets to his feet and asks for the key to 221b. Mrs. Hudson throws him a bewildered look, but starts bustling through her drawers and finally hands him the key without asking a single question. When he leaves the room, I suddenly feel a strange urge to follow him. Without thinking about it, I get up and make my way up the stairs, feeling like a child approaching a door that Mum and Dad have strictly forbidden. Out of habit, I skip the creaking step and for a millisecond it feels like coming home.  
Greg is standing in the middle of the living room, looking like he'd forgotten what he'd come for in the first place.  
I enter, slowly, carefully. The flat seems achingly familiar (I shouldn't be so surprised about that) but, despite the fact that only a few objects have been removed, it looks somewhat empty. There is the laptop that should be lying around somewhere, the scientific equipment that should be covering every surface in the kitchen and the violin that should be waiting for its owner by the window. There isn't any dust, as if Mrs. Hudson still did the dusting twice a week. I wouldn't put it past her.  
My eyes find the fireplace that is still looking just like it always did. The chairs are still at the exact same place, facing each other. Even the skull still sits on the mantelpiece and if I'm not very much mistaken there are still cigarettes hidden underneath it. The thought of these cigarettes makes me smile.  
"Why are we investigating?" Lestrade suddenly bursts out. "There's a whole _life_ in here, you can't just _fake_ that!"  
"I know, right?" Mrs. Hudson whispers. I flinch, I didn't notice her entering.  
_You've been pretty unobservant of late, John_. Yes, yes, I know. Compared to Sherlock, I've never seen much in the first place, but lately I'm blind.

When Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson have left, talking in hushed voices, probably about me, I sink down onto my old chair. I stare at the empty armchair facing me and listen to the silence in the flat.  
It hurts, yes, but a lot less than I expected, and I'm starting to find it all strangely comforting.  
And as the time goes by and the noise outside the window starts to fade away, I feel myself letting him go a bit more.


	8. Courtesy call (Mycroft-Sherlock)

**Courtesy call**

**_*A/N* Another chapter! I promised and I deliver, admittedly rather late. A big thanks to everyone who has actually read this far! I hope you like this one. If you've got any ideas, PM me. Please help me to keep this going! I really enjoy writing it, but my muse seems to have gone on a longer holiday...  
Oh, and please review. Reviews make me happy ;)_**

He glared disgustedly at the pearly white china and scoffed. Trust his staff to think they could make him believe he had not been put on another diet. His cook had draped dinner over a smaller plate to conceal the fact that it was forty-five percent less than usually, but of course, that was idle and Charles should have known that.

Mycroft Holmes was probably the smartest man in the country and the old cook's cheap tricks could impossibly escape his notice. Nor could the fact that a guest had arrived in the estate exactly two minutes and twenty-six seconds ago, announced by the quick footsteps of Anthea. She burst into the room looking stunned and altogether very upset.

"Sir, there is someone in the hall, I...He…"

Mycroft sighed. "You've just encountered my late brother, if I'm not very much mistaken, and found out he is not so deceased after all."

"Yes, sir. I tried to keep him out, but he just wouldn't listen," she stammered. He had to admire how well she kept up. He assumed working with him for over three years had made her more resilient than he gave her credit for.

"He does that, yes...Don't bother to send him up, you wouldn't be able to stop him anyway. Thank you, Anthea."

She left and he returned to stare at his plate, prodded the food with his fork and then shoved it away. The news of his guest had lost him his appetite. He could hear said guest approaching the door. He had a certain walking pace that Mycroft would never forget. The exact noise level of his steps and the time that passed in between were always present in his memory and it was no use trying to get rid of them. No, he had spent far too much time standing unnoticed in front of his door, listening to him pacing up and down, to ever forget this sound.

"Good evening, Sherlock," he said quietly without looking up.

"Mycroft." His little brother had sounded reserved and resentful when addressing him ever since he'd left childhood, but now… Now there was a new edge to it. Defeat. And a sadness that he had always had, but never let on. Not until now.

"Why have you come?"

"What, are you not going to ask me to sit down?" Sherlock asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"What for?" Mycroft replied. "You would just tell me you preferred to stand there in the doorway so you could leave any second. I have given up trying to teach you manners, little brother."

"Did you?"

Finally, Mycroft raised his eyes to look at his brother. He looked unhealthily thin (not just compared to him), gaunt and pale. But he was not visibly wounded, and even though it was obvious that he had taken a variety of different drugs during his trips to some Asian countries (visible from both his skin and his shoes...at least for Mycroft), it did not seem like he had relapsed. It was more than Mycroft had hoped for.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" he repeated finally. "If it was money, you would have texted me."

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. It wasn't hard for his older brother to remember millions of times when he'd stood there exactly like that, trying to look defiant and brave and only his eyes giving away that he'd come because he needed his brother. Mycroft caught himself whishing Sherlock were five again and he could just go and hug him. Or at least say something friendly without making him think he was trying to manipulate him. Not for the first time he asked himself when their relationship had gone so wrong.

"Can't I just have come to see my big brother? Have a chat, catch up on his news, not that you'd have anything to tell me since it's all top secret…" Sherlock gave a disgusted snort, "Maybe I just want to see that all is well with you, brother dear. The sort of thing people do."

"We're not 'people', Sherlock. And no, you wouldn't." And neither would he.

He'd always watched out for Sherlock, paid off teachers to endure him without complaint when he himself had been only thirteen, planted bugging devices on him so he could follow him when he ran away. One time, shortly after Sherlock had stopped talking to him, Mycroft had broken a schoolboy's nose to stop him from constantly harassing his brother. And then there was a seemingly meaningless document that had led to the death of a certain Mr Holmes. Mycroft had typed, signed and send it, or, to cut it short, he had killed his father in cold blood at the age of nineteen.

Sherlock never knew. He had been told that a stroke had killed his tormentor. There had never been a reason not to believe it, his father had been a drinker, after all. He had never bothered to take a closer look at the case, he was twelve and all he cared about was that this man would never hurt him again. And that was all Mycroft cared about, too.

But he'd never actually _told _him that he came to check on him. There were so many things they never told each other.

"You don't look good," Mycroft stated quietly.

"I'm fine," his brother spat, sounding too angry to be convincing. He tried to hide the pain and it probably worked on most people, but as Mycroft had said, they weren't 'people' and he could see right through him.

"No, you're not. And that is perfectly understandable." He sighed and stood up. "You should find your room prepared. Sleep is necessary, Sherlock, even for you."

Sherlock shot him an angry look and gave a curt nod. He was halfway through the hall when he heard his brother say:

"They're all well, given the circumstances."

"Who is?" he asked in a cautious voice.

"Your friends. Doctor Watson has found a new employment. He still visits the grave on a weekly basis and shouts at his therapist, but on the whole he seems to cope rather well. Mrs Hudson keeps two hundred and twenty-one b unoccupied and regularly holds dinner for the Doctor. And you might care to know that Gregory Lestrade almost got fired because he defended you in a rather aggressive manner in front of his co-workers."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Lestrade, typical. Sentimental. And very, very loyal.

"Can you do something for him?"

"I did already."

Another nod. "Thank you," he added softly and left the room.


	9. In the graveyard (Mycroft-Sherlock-Greg)

**In the graveyard**

**Disclaimer**: Don't own it, Moffat does. I'm getting used to that idea.

_***A/N* Ever since I've seen that damned scene from Reichenbach, I wondered what the other characters had to say if you put them in front of the right headstone. I'm not too happy with Mycroft, though... Anyway, all of you who have read this far, thank you!  
Do please review, and PM me if you've got a prompt for me.**_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes at the grave of somebody that he used to know

A light breeze ruffled the neatly trimmed hedge that surrounded the grave. It looked flawless, it was in a better state than all the other graves on the graveyard. Gardener, obvious.

The grave was clearly regularly cared for, it was evident that someone came here about once a week, repeating the ever same movements, trimming the hedge, ripping out stray grass, watering the flowers. Could be a relative, caring for the grave. But whoever came here so often had not known the woman buried in this place or at least did not care to remember her. The little patch of ground facing the headstone looked just like the everywhere else, no one had stopped there longer than necessary. Relatives or friends would, sentiment. But, despite not having any emotional attachment to this grave, whoever worked here still did a very good job. Employed, presumably a unusually high salary, anxious to lose the job.

So, gardener it was.

Of course, this whole deduction was idle. He had known all along there was a gardener. The woman lying in this grave only had two living relatives. Himself, who had never returned after the funeral, and his brother, who had organised burial and gardener and then firmly pushed their mother from his mind.

But his brain couldn't help to prepare these explanations, as if it was waiting for someone to ask for them. He had gotten dangerously used to doing this during these precious months when he'd had a flatmate. A friend, even, who had swallowed all these deductions and taken them as the proof of genius. Who believed in him back then and still did, even though he shouldn't.

And apparently his brain also couldn't help but to show him that other graveyard, that other headstone, that other man standing in front of it. Angrily he shook his head, trying to get rid of the memory.

He stared at the engraving, reading the name, the dates, feeling nothing but the echo of a long-gone pain and guilt, not because of this grave but another.

Then he slowly turned and walked away.

The living caused so much more pain than the dead.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes at the grave of the only woman whom he had given the chance to fail him

He watched his brother as he turned his back on their mother's grave. When Sherlock had still been a kid, he had actually been sad about her death, even though he had never let it on, but now he seemed indifferent to it.

His mind was occupied with other things.

Mycroft sighed and glanced over the engraving, remembering how he'd felt when she had left them. Disappointed, that was what he'd been back then. She was their mother, and she was supposed to care for her sons.

For Mycroft, she had still tried her best. Of course, she had been intimidated and disconcerted by the unusual intelligence of her baby boy, but she had tried.

_"Say hello to your baby brother, love." Mummy was looking so tired. "Here, you can hold him. Take good care of him, dear, do you promise me that? Promise you'll look after Sherlock."_

_"Yes, mummy. I will."_

But then, when Sherlock turned out just the same, she couldn't cope anymore. She abandoned them.

Not physically. She still lived in the house, although often locked in her room for days on end. She just stopped to look after them, she didn't protect them from their father's outbursts or defend them in front of their overwhelmed teachers. If necessary, she talked to them, patted Mycroft on the shoulder for his good grades and gave Sherlock a smile for the pictures he drew her.

But she still wasn't _there_. And in her elder son's eyes, she could not have failed more.

When she died, there was one thing the 13 year-old Mycroft had asked to have. He took her wedding ring, and soon it fitted his finger and he had been wearing it ever since, to remind him of how greatly one could fail and not to make the same mistakes.

He had never laid this much trust in any other woman again, not in anyone, in fact. He had seen how that turned out.

"I'm still fulfilling your task, Mummy. I'm looking after him."

With that, he followed his little brother back to the car.

* * *

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade at the grave of his friend

"Hello, old friend. Erm...I would have brought you flowers, but you never cared about stuff like that when you were alive, and if you were, you'd probably tell me there were better things to waste my money on." He gave a shaky laugh and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I've just signed the last bit of my divorce. Just thought you'd like to know that you were right, about the PE teacher and all that. Been living alone for a while now, though I haven't managed to make as much of a mess as you always did. I guess I spend too much time in the office for that…  
There's this case at the moment, you would have loved it. We don't have a clue, completely in the dark. This woman just disappeared into thin air, at least that's what we see...you would have known where she's gone, I bet. _Obvious_. And you'd have a go at Anderson. I did, when he asked me if I wouldn't like to consult another fraud to help us with the case.

Just saying, I don't really believe it. There's all this evidence, and everyone's so sure of it...well, except John, of course...but I got this feeling, that it's all not true. You'd tell me off for that, wouldn't you? You'd say the facts were staring me in the face and I should go with that.

I'm, er, going out tonight. If you could see me, you'd already know that, of course. From my socks or the shirt buttons or something. Molly Hooper. You would have been the only one not to tell me she was too young for me. Would you even care? Probably not." He shook his head and rubbed his face firmly with both hands.

"I don't even know what I'm doing here. God, this is so stupid. I just hoped it would give me some peace, talking to you. Because, you know, you gave me a whole lot of trouble, doing what you did! They almost threw me out, and I never shouted at my co-workers before and now, look at me!" Exhaling shakily, he took a step back from the grave and looked around to see if anyone had noticed him, yelling at a headstone. For God's sake, he was losing it.

"No, sorry. I… In a way, I guess I understand. I told John once that, maybe, one day you'd be a good man. You almost made it there, you know? I just wish I'd know what really happened, that day. And it would be good to hear it's not been my fault.

Anyway...don't expect me round here again too soon, I'm not very good with graves, as you might have noticed. So, erm… bye then. Sherlock Holmes." He gave the grave a curt nod, the way he'd always given him one, and left the yard in a hurry.

* * *

_**The Whovians amongst you might have noticed that Lestrade sounds a bit Pond-ish. Sorry about that.**_


	10. Peace (John)

**Peace**

**Diclaimer:** I still didn't wake up to find I am Steven Moffat.

_***A/N* "this peace is what all true warriors strive for" That was my prompt from **_**krikanalo**_**. It was a great Sherlock prompt, I gotta say, because the first thing that came to my mind was the **BelieveinSherlock** movement. I hope you enjoy what I made of it. **_  
_**As always, a review would make me very happy, promts or ideas would, too.  
Or the third series, but I guess none of you can get me that…?**_

* * *

_I fight John Watson's war. Don't believe the lies. Moriarty was real. I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

It's on the Internet, on the streets, I don't remember how I first heard about it, but they're there. Millions, everywhere, all over the globe. These people, believing in what I say, "fighting my war".

Greg shows it to me when I meet him at the pub on one of these golden October evenings when everyone else feels light and happy and I don't even care to know what day it is. I guess he thinks it would comfort me to know there are others out there.

And in a way it does. And in another it doesn't.

"You know what kept me carrying on in Afghanistan?" I ask him and look at the DI over my glass of beer. He's looking better than when I've last seen him, not okay, but better.

He gives me a puzzled look, and I guess my reaction must seem a bit random to him. Great, now he'll worry about my head again.

"No."

"I wanted peace, I wanted my bloody peace of mind back. And I thought that somehow, if I'd reach something, if I could help win the war, that would help me. And then they sent me back."

My mind wanders back to those first days back in London, back in "civil life", without my permission.

_The John Watson I knew couldn't stand to be anywhere else._

_Yeah, I'm not the John Watson._

"I thought I'd never sleep again. I kept dreaming of all that stuff, and I felt like they'd taken away my only chance of getting rid of it. When I left, I missed London so much. I thought this was the only place where I could ever be. And then I came back and there was no place for me in the whole stupid world. I couldn't stand to be here. I couldn't stand to be anywhere else."

Somewhere in the corner of my mind a little voice notes that Greg starts to look very uncomfortable. I decide to ignore it. It feels good to talk about this.

"When I met Sherlock's brother for the first time, on the night I met Sherlock, he said something about me missing the war. He said a lot of creepy stuff that night, but it was the first thing he said that actually scared me, because he was spot on, you know? He'd seen right through me."

This conversation with Mycroft Holmes, just like most other memories, is always there in the back of my mind, like a movie on hold.

_Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?  
__The war doesn't hunt you, Doctor Watson. You miss it.  
__Welcome back._

"That's in the family, I guess," Greg mutters and proceeds to stare at his pint.

"Yeah. He left and just said 'welcome back'. At first I thought he was talking rubbish or just trying to sound cool, I wasn't back at war or anything after all. But after a while it started to feel like that again. It was giving my life a purpose."

"You've got it in for dangerous jobs, don't you?"

"What did you have in mind when you started working at Scotland Yard? Paperwork?" I mock.

_She said you like it, you get off on it._

_And I said danger...and here you are._

I wish my brain would stop this.

"You didn't deserve this, John," he says after a while, still not looking at me.

"Would anyone?" It's kind of a rhetorical question, and he sure enough doesn't reply.

I wonder if the guy behind the counter ever overheard a conversation as depressing as ours. What's really sad, though, is that to me, this is more like a bit of cheery chit-chat.

"Anyway, that's why I think it's so stupid… fighting 'my war', you know? Because I'm a soldier, and I've got no war anymore. No purpose."

"John, don't say that-" he says, almost begging. I frown. Does he really think I could be suicidal?

I guess he does. And I guess that's the logical assumption given my behaviour.

"Don't worry. I'm not gonna...you know. Not my style." That doesn't even sound reassuring to my ears. "I'm not… I'm okay. Really."

He shoots me a dark look and replies: "No. If I'm not okay, there's no way you could be."

What's that Ella always says? "The best I could be, given the circumstances."

Greg snorts and orders another beer for both of us.

Also a way of solving problems.

It's paradox, really. I'm fighting all this time, just to have peace. And I want to stop fighting so badly.

But I can't.

_Don't believe the lies. Sherlock Holmes was real. John Watson's soldiers._

* * *

**_*A/N* P.S.: My spacing seemed to bother some people, so I tried to change it, tell me if it's better now..._**


	11. A ghost on record (Greg)

**A ghost on record**

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the characters are the making of Arthur Conan Doyle, Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

_***A/N* My muse is back and keeps me awake at ungodly hours.  
Anyway, I hope you like this one, it was prompted by **_beccabrrr_**. I'm kinda proud of this one, although I've got the feeling there's a grammar mistake somewhere. Please tell me if you find it. And, as always, I ask you to review if you can spare the time.**_

Oh, and an imaginary bisquit to the one who spots the Doctor Who reference ;)

* * *

Lestrade stared at the file on his desk and read the same sentence for the sixth time, still not understanding a word of it. He was incredibly tired. Not exactly a miracle, he hadn't slept for 25 hours and the solution of the case wasn't coming any closer unless he managed to read this goddamned file… but he was so bloody exhausted…

"Sir?"

He gave a start and looked up. "Anderson? What the hell are you doing up here? There's a reason it says forensics on your ruddy job description, I need this whole thing wrapped up by tomorrow or the boss is gonna kill me and I swear if that happens I'll kill you first."

Anderson looked slightly taken aback at this kind of addressing. "It's just that...I've found something weird on that CCTV tape I was looking at, from the crime scene. I thought you ought to know."

"I'm busy," Lestrade snapped and returned to his file.

"It's about the freak."

"Are you gonna make fun of me again?" He had half risen from his chair before he knew it. Taking a deep breath and slowly counting to five in his head, he sat down again and tried to keep his voice calm, resulting in a strained drawl. "It's been half a year, will you shut up about it? It's one thing to make low jokes and have the emotional understanding of a four-year-old, but it is absolutely unfair and disgusting to keep pouring salt into my wounds when I'm in bloody mourning! I've lost a friend six months ago, will you get your dumb heads around that once and for all? He was my friend. He mattered to me."

Anderson raised his hands and took a step back. "I'm not making fun of you, sir. He's on the tape, the frea- Holmes, he's on CCTV."

The Detective Inspector gave him an incredulous glance. "On the tape from Joe Norris's shop?"

"Yes."

"The recordings of last Wednesday?" he inquired disbelievingly.

"Yes." Anderson placed a laptop on Lestrade's desk and opened a file. The classic CCTV grizzle flickered over the video.

"There, twelve twenty-three. The man who enters the shop. Look at him."

A tall, dark haired man strode through the door and grabbed a bottle of water and a box of chocolates, then proceeded straight to the cash desk. He was wearing a perfectly fitted, expensive-looking suit of a dark grey, posh black shoes and a navy blue tie, which made him look like a banker of some sort. The camera didn't catch his face, almost as though he was keeping it away from the camera on purpose.

"Well, he does look pretty much like him, but-" Lestrade admitted slowly, then fell silent as a loud bang outside the shop's door, presumably the murder they were investigating. The man at the desk jerked up his head and for the fraction of a second, his eyes met the camera.

And even though Lestrade knew it was completely and utterly impossible, he could have sworn this was no other than Sherlock Holmes. He knew the feeling when these sharp eyes pierced him.

Anderson rewound the clip and froze it.

"Well?"

He was still staring at the screen, his rationality battling the evidence of his eyes. "It can't be him," he concluded determinedly. "Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"That's what I thought," Anderson replied doubtfully. "But is it actually possible that two people look so much alike?"

"Has to be," Lestrade said with a shrug. "Unless you've spotted his ghost."

"Or unless he's not dead."

"Don't be ridiculous. He jumped off a five floor building!"

"It's not like he hadn't fooled us before. Maybe he just wanted out of the whole affair and faked it. So he wouldn't have to stand up for what he did."

"Number one. Sherlock Holmes took the truth about him to his grave, and in the end you're just as clueless as everybody else. Number two. The man I knew would have stood up for it, and if only to show off even more. And number three, I've seen the fucking body and it was him and he had a smashed-in head and most of his blood was smeared over the pavement outside! He's dead and that's the end of it."

~o~o~o~

Only it wasn't. Hours after Anderson had left, Lestrade was still pondering about the man who could have been Sherlock's clone. He couldn't make anything of it, and that feeling the stranger's gaze had given him…

It had been Sherlock Holmes. Different clothes, obviously, and a different haircut. Short, too short, in fact, to see if it was curly or not. And, hard to tell on the CCTV tape, though, it was a tad lighter than Sherlock's had been the last time he saw him. But then again, his friend's curls had been soaked with blood… He clenched his hand over his mouth as he discovered the memory was still making him sick.

But the biggest difference between the man on the tape and the man that had lain on the slab in the morgue - he choked - was the fact that one was alive and the other was dead, no pulse, no breathing, slowly getting cold and stiff. Lestrade started to sweat heavily and the next moment he darted off to the toilet where what little food he had eaten for lunch left him again.

_Sherlock Holmes is dead_, he told himself firmly as he tried to get rid of the disgusting taste the vomit had left in his throat. Dead, gone, lost. And definitely not coming back to buy himself mineral water and cheap chocolate.

~o~o~o~

27 hours and 42 minutes without sleep. Lestrade forced his eyes open and stared at the dark outlines of his co-workers on the other side of the frosted glass pane. They probably hadn't even noticed he hadn't left the office all night.

And he still hadn't read his file.

He still felt sick, alternated between feeling unbearably hot and shivering with cold, although he was starting to believe the latter was due to his exhaustion.

But returning to his lonely, lifeless flat wouldn't be of any use. Like he could sleep now.

No, he needed to talk to someone. Immediately. He glanced at his watch and decided he could call someone without making them hate him for all eternity. But then, halfway through dialling John Watson's number, he froze.

Poor, heart-broken John, who had finally started to look people in the eyes again when they were talking to him. Who was able to smile again in a genuine way from time to time. Who had, despite his limp and the tremor in his hand, decided to shape up a bit. Told him, not without pride, how he was progressing. Who had actually had a date last week.

He couldn't give him hope and then take it away. God knew what it would do to him.

Groaning, he collapsed on his desk and buried his aching head in his arms.

~o~o~o~

He woke up two hours later with a stiff neck.

And realised with a smile that he knew the exact person to turn to.

_**You busy? G.L.**_

_**No, not at all…**_

_**Coming over. Bringing coffee. Cappuccino for you, right?**_

"I know it can't be, but...I could swear it was him, honestly," he concluded quietly, leaning against the table in St Bart's lab. Molly Hooper sipped at her cappuccino.

She hadn't asked a single question as he arrived in the morgue, carrying two cups of coffee to-go and looking like the walking dead. She hadn't laughed at him and she hadn't commented on the fact he came to visit her at eight thirty in the morning like he had nothing better to do.

God, he loved her.

"Maybe the shopkeeper gave you an old tape," she suggested. "By accident. Or to cover up for someone."

He considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I've never seen Sherlock with a haircut like that."

"It could have been a _very_ old tape."

"He didn't look younger…"

Molly sighed and stared at her feet. "Maybe some sleep would help. You look tired."

Laughing, he binned his empty coffee cup. "That's a nice way to put it."

She smiled her usual shy, awkward smile and a light blush crept over her cheek. Oh, right, he was staring at her. He should stop.

"Sorry," he muttered and ran his hands through his thinning hair. "I really, _really_ need to sleep. Thanks for listening to my wild stories, Molly." He gave her a crooked smile and for a split second, he wondered what would happen if he kissed her.

_For Heaven's sake, go to bed and get these ideas out of your head. You're old and divorced and overworked and your only perspective is more work. Not to mention you're probably mental since you've started to see ghosts._

"See ya," he mumbled and left unceremoniously.

He didn't see how Molly Hooper sat down heavily and buried her head in her hands, wondering how she got herself into such a stupid situation. Caught between two detectives, the exact two men she had ever fallen for since her graduation. She could continue to lie for the one, or she could break her promise for the other.

After a long, long while, she dialled the number he had given her, the one to call if all else failed.


	12. 3:06 am (Mycroft)

**3:06 am**

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own a thing.

_***A/N* I know that Sherlock consuming heroin is not strictly cannon, but I don't know if you could overdose cocaine like that (yeah, sorry, I guess I'm not much of a bad girl, I don't have a clue about drugs) and I just considered it more...dramatic, I guess (no offence to anyone!).**_

* * *

A small noise ripped the night apart.

He woke with a start and glanced around the old estate that was usually filled with an eerie silence. For a moment, Mycroft wondered whether he had imagined it, but just when he had come to the conclusion he had dreamt the noise, it happened again.

His eyes flickered to his alarm clock. Six past three. What in the name of Heaven was Sherlock doing?

Another sound, quieter this time. Before he knew it, Mycroft was on his feet and through the bedroom door. It would not be the first time Sherlock miscalculated a drug dose.

He hurried across the gallery, trying to ignore the memories of his sixteen year-old brother lying on the floor, surrounded by the shattered glass of what used to be his two Erlenmeyer flasks, five test tubes, a wild mixture of dubious chemicals, a glass of water and of course the empty heroin syringe. Barely breathing. Bleeding from hundreds of tiny cuts on his back and several on his arm that had definitely not been caused by the shards of glass.

_He wouldn't do that anymore. He's learned_, Mycroft told himself firmly. He would _not_ have to sit next to his brother for what felt like hours, waiting for the ambulance, listening anxiously to his shallow breaths while his father was absent and his mother hysteric, crying and useless. Not any more.

"Sherlock?" He reached out reluctantly and knocked on the ever-locked door. No reaction. Why, God knew he was used to _that_.

Cursing, he skidded back into his room and grabbed the next best thing to a key he could find. A letter opener.

His fingers shook slightly as he fumbled with the lock. Sherlock would have picked that in no time.

He tried to persuade himself there was no need to worry. Sherlock had grown up. Yes, he was still taking drugs, yes, he was still not exactly the impersonation of responsibility, but he was smart enough to do his maths. He knew what lines not to cross.

The door sprang open.

A harsh wind greeted him. The window stood wide open and the big, sparsely furnitured room was freezing.

His brother was lying in the bed, helplessly tangled in the blanket.

He was sleeping, but not peacefully. He tossed himself from side to side, kicking and shivering and whimpered occasionally, which must have been what had woken his older brother.

Mycroft took a few steps in, then thought better of it and retreated behind the doorframe again. No, Sherlock had refused any physical contact to him ever since he was eleven (not to mention any form of trust, let alone affection), and to find Mycroft sitting by his bed in the dead of night when he was so vulnerable would certainly not be what he wanted.

He was on his way back to bed when he heard him. Sobbing. His brother was crying in his sleep, and despite everything Mycroft had decided, it was time to wake him because if there was one noise in the world he could not bear, it was this.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up!" he whispered, wondering whether it was too childish to "accidentally" drop something outside his bedroom as he had done when Sherlock was younger and would have probably punched him had he entered his room without permission.

It was too childish, he decided and placed his hand carefully on the younger man's thin shoulder. Even through the fabric of the pyjama he could feel that his skin was ice-cold.

"Sherlock."

His brother flinched, then sat up, breathing heavily, and stared at the man who'd woken him with unfocused eyes. "What...what happened?" he stuttered and tried to blink away the veil of tears that still blurred his view.

"Nothing. I just hoped you'd be a little quieter if I woke you," Mycroft answered bluntly and immediately felt like slapping himself for his tone. When had he started to snap at his brother without reason?

Sherlock rubbed his face with a shaking hand and stared at his brother with the same, unseeing eyes. He did not appear to have heard him.

He shivered and without warning, the unshed tears of the last six months broke through his carefully constructed dams.

Mycroft caught his brother more by chance than actually meaning to and froze, dumbfounded, his mind finding nothing better to do than to calculate when he had last held his brother. Almost thirty years, it informed him seconds later.

He knew neither of them would ever mention this again when the sun had risen, and he also knew he was not the one Sherlock needed right now. He wasn't even sure whether his brother was awake enough to actually _recognise_ him.

But he was helping. And that was all that mattered to him.

~O~O~O~O~

After a while, Sherlock fell asleep again and Mycroft got to his feet, his knees and back protesting vigorously. He covered his little brother, closed the window as noiselessly as the old frame allowed it and turned up the heating. Then he left the room on tiptoe, the place where Sherlock's head had rested still damp.

He sat down on his desk and started to write some overdue reports, a faint, melancholic smile on his lips until the morning.


	13. Time to choose a side (Mycroft)

**Time to choose a side**

**Disclaimer**: If I owned anything, we'd already have the bloody season for at least six months.

_***A/N* This was inspired by a line from the second Sherlock Holmes movie (you know, the one with Robert Downey Jr.). You'll find it at the very end of the chapter (now don't peak). I hope you'll enjoy it, even though it's Sherlock and Mycroft again (I can't seem to keep away from these two).**_

* * *

"Sherlock, for Heaven's sake, I _gave_ you a computer, it is _completely_ unnecessary for you to take mine!" he bellowed and stomped up the stairs. Of course, his brother wasn't in his room, neither was he to be found in the dining room, nor the hall, the sitting room or the fireplace room.

Sherlock had to make himself comfortable in _his_ armchair, in _his_ study, with _his_ laptop on his knees.

When trying to guess his behavior, the fact that his brother was in his late thirties could easily be ignored. Had he been seven years old, Mycroft would still have found him there.

He was about to hold yet another (pointless since completely ignored by Sherlock) lecture, but thought better of it when he saw the look on his face.

"What is it?"

His brother didn't answer. With one hand, he kept on scrolling furiously down a screamingly orange page, with the other, he shoved a piece of paper covered with untidy handwriting over the desk.

Mycroft frowned and glanced over it.

_Mrs Hudson not leaving house unless necessary - followed?  
Neighbours - two down. two remaining? One of them inner circle - trustworthy enough to be a sniper?_

These lines were followed by a rough draft of 221 Baker Street and surroundings, marked with small letters, arrows, distances and side notes such as _visible from bathroom window only_.

"She's got a bad hip, don't you think this may prevent her from going out? Besides, she was never much about the city."

A photocopy followed the note across the desk.

The photograph on it showed two pages of a notebook. The writing was distantly familiar to Mycroft.

"John's therapist?"

"Obviously."

_Recurring trust issues. Feels followed when in town, impression of CCTV cameras following him = Paranoia increasing_

"Why should they be threatened?" Mycroft asked slowly.

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut (Mycroft flinched, this was surely not how his sensitive technical instruments were supposed to be treated) and placed it on the small pile of notes scattered over the polished wood.

"Molly called."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "You gave her your number?"

"I discarded the phone immediately," he explained impatiently. "Lestrade found something, or rather," he grinded his teeth unwillingly, "Anderson did."

"Found what?"

"Video footage. Of me. From last week," he muttered, his head bowed. He was embarrassed, obviously, for he knew exactly what his brother would have to say to that.

"You of all people should be clever enough to avoid CCTV, Sherlock."

"Someone was shot outside the shop!" he growled. "It gave me a start and I must have looked up at the camera for a second or so."

"That is not an excuse." Mycroft knew he had adopted the quiet, cold voice of his father.

"_Well, I know_!" Sherlock shouted, then added, calmer and with a sneer: "What would you have me do, oh wise brother?"

Mycroft shot his brother a stern glance and ignored the question. "Did Lestrade make anything of it?"

Sherlock sighed. "He thinks he's going mad, but it bothers him."

"Did he tell anyone?"

"No one except Molly, again, he doesn't believe his eyes. But Anderson could have told half of London for all we know."

"Huh." Mycroft sighed. "You believe the sniper for Lestrade holds a position within the Yard?"

Sherlock leaned back, eyes closed. "Yes. Has to be. He was in the office at that time, so the sniper has to work there, anyone else would have been noticed."

"They're not going to make their move until they know someone will reward them for it."

Sherlock huffed angrily. "Dear brother, just because you wouldn't pay an assassin in advance doesn't mean Moriarty wouldn't. He had a plan, and even though shooting himself might not have been part of it, he must have had a general idea where the whole thing was heading."

"And what are you planning to do about it?" He eyed his brother cautiously. Sherlock had always been rash with his decisions, but if one of them cost any of his friends' lives, his sensitive sanity would be beyond repair.

"The only thing I can do," he responded grimly and started the laptop again. "I'm going after them."

"And then what?"

"Stop them."

Mycroft knew he didn't even need to voice his disagreements.

Not only did he hate to see his brother putting his life on the line, but also knowing how easily someone like Sherlock, once dived into the darkness, could drown in it. His sharp mind had been soaking up the hatred inside him ever since his "death" and he knew Sherlock was on the edge. One more step and he might fall.

"Stop them how?"

"Have them arrested somehow, bribe them, threaten them." He paused for a heartbeat. "Kill them if I have to."

His voice was emotionless, but his eyes were not. He was scared.

"How will you go about finding them?" Mycroft finally asked when he could not bear the silence, their defencelessness, anymore.

"I will send a message, see who is reacting."

He sighed. "Risky."

"Tell me you've got a better idea."

He typed a couple of lines, stood up and ran his hand through his unusually short hair. Then he made for his coat that lay on a chair in the corner.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

He threw him a long look, full of darkness and fury, mixed with the expression of a lost, hopeless child, the one he had hoped to never see in his brother's eyes again.

"I'm turning my back on the side of angels."

* * *

At Scotland Yard, a boring Wednesday morning was interrupted in a highly unsettling manner as a message appeared on all the screens in the building. It was gone after a moment, but it had been there, and everyone had read the words.

And Sherlock Holmes, watching via several hacked CCTV cameras, was not the only one to notice that one of the Detectives had gone white as a sheet at the sight of his lines.

_Rest assured, if you attempt to bring destruction down upon me, I shall do the same to you._


End file.
